


Merry Christmas

by aljohnson



Series: Christmas 1958 - AU [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aljohnson/pseuds/aljohnson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's on an emotional roller-coaster, and Shelagh doesn't want to let him try to deal with it alone.</p><p>This is completely, majestically, epically AU! This, just, never, ever, ever, even in any remote possibility, ever happened in 'Canon'.</p><p>I still struggle to name both fics and chapters therein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> The 'kindly Nurse' is *not* the Matron portrayed by Sandi Toksvig in the CS. This is a *very* short introductory chapter.

It was getting late on the Children’s Ward, and the kindly nurse came over to Timothy’s bed.

“I'm sorry Doctor Turner, Mrs Turner, but I will have to ask you to leave. If matron comes back and finds you here….” She broke off, anxiously looking over her shoulder towards the doors of the ward. 

“Oh, I'm not….” Shelagh’s voice trailed off as Patrick gripped her hand reassuringly. 

“Yes, thank you Nurse, you’ve been very kind letting us stay so long” said Patrick, looking down at Timothy. 

The boy smiled weakly up at Patrick and Shelagh. “Dad, what day is it?”

“It’s Christmas Eve son”

“Oh. Have I missed the wedding?”

“No, no son, you've not missed it”

“We've decided to postpone it, just for a little bit.” said Shelagh, trying to sound cheerful.

“We couldn't get married without you being there” said Patrick, hugging Timothy just that little bit tighter. 

“I'm sorry Dad, Shelagh. I've ruined it for you”

“No, no Timothy, you haven’t ruined anything” said Shelagh, seeking to reassure the boy.

Patrick and Shelagh smiled at each other, and moved carefully from the bed, both of them taking pains to try to disturb the boy as little as possible. Shelagh gathered up Patrick’s Jacket, Overcoat and Hat, and collected her own items. She bent down and stroked Timothy’s hair lightly, “Good night Timothy, sleep well".

“We’ll be back in the morning son” said Patrick, bending down and kissing the boy on the forehead. 

Shelagh held Patrick’s hand and led him from the ward, both of them taking one last look back at Timothy, who was already falling asleep, as they crept out of the ward.


	2. In the Bleak Midwinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick is tired, and emotionally drained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That thing about it being AU? Yeah, that's my excuse for anything which might seem *slightly* out of character!
> 
> Also - electric kettles as we would recognise them were introduced to the UK by Russell Hobbs in 1955. The things I research for fics!

Patrick sat in the driver’s seat of the MG. He was tired, well; exhausted and shattered would be more accurate.

“Where shall I take you? Back to your lodgings?” asked Patrick.

Shelagh took a deep breath, “no, let’s go back to Kenilworth Row”, she didn't dare use the word ‘home’. 

Patrick fired the car’s engine into life, and pulled away from The London. The drive back to Kenilworth Row took no more than ten minutes, but to each of Shelagh and Patrick it felt like an eternity. Patrick parked the car up outside the house, flopping his head against the steering wheel. “I am so tired, but I just don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside” said Shelagh. She got out of the car, rooting in her handbag for the key to the front door. This was not how she had envisioned today turning out. She had been planning for Patrick to carry her over the threshold of the house as Mrs Turner. She bit her lip to fight back the tears which were threatening to overwhelm her. She passed straight through into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and laying out the tea things.

Patrick followed Shelagh into the darkened house, shutting the door quietly behind him. He hadn’t been here since he had dashed to the hospital two days earlier. The building felt quiet and cold. He walked into the lounge and flicked the light switch. The sight which met him almost provoked tears; two pairs of shoes were laid out, the ironing board was up with a no longer quite so freshly ironed shirt hanging over it, there was a broken glass on the floor. Shelagh came up behind him, reaching out and touching his shoulder. 

“I'm sorry. I should have come back and tidied. I’ll get a brush for that glass.” She pulled back to retrace her steps, but Patrick reached out, turning round and pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her tightly. 

“I was so worried for him. I thought, I thought….” Patrick’s voice quietened, he didn't want to voice the thoughts which had run through his mind as he had sat in the hospital and prayed to a God he barely believed in for a miracle to save his son. 

Shelagh wrapped her arms around him, holding Patrick as tightly as he was holding her. Neither of them wanted to break the contact. The kettle boiled in the kitchen, clicking off to indicate that the water was boiled. Shelagh reluctantly loosened her hold, leaning back and looking at Patrick, “come on, let’s get you a cup of tea, and see if we can’t get you to relax”. She noted the redness in his eyes, saw what she thought were tears being desperately fought back.

Patrick followed Shelagh into the kitchen and sat down as she busied herself brewing the tea. She rooted in the cupboard under the sink for a dustpan and brush, and squeezed Patrick’s shoulder as she moved past him into the lounge. 

She returned a few moments later, having moved the shoes to the hallway, hung the shirt up on the back of a chair, collapsed the ironing board and swept up the broken glass. Patrick was still staring into space as Shelagh moved past him again. It was only the sound of the broken glass dropping into the kitchen bin that roused Patrick from his stupor. He looked over at the woman who should by now have been his wife. 

“Shelagh” he whispered, “I'm sorry. This was not how today was supposed to be.”

“Indeed not Patrick, but we will find a way to sort it out and make it right”. 

Shelagh busied herself pouring the now brewed tea, and placed the cup in front of Patrick. She sat down next to him, and grasped his hand tightly. “I was so scared, when I found Timothy on the sofa. I can hardly imagine what you have felt these last two days”

Patrick answered tentatively, “I think you have felt it too. I think, even though he is not your son by blood, or birth, that you love him just as much as if he were.”

Shelagh nodded, adding gently, “I don’t want to usurp his mother. I can, to an extent, understand how much he must miss her. I do love him just as much as if he was mine, I believe. And I love his father, very much”. She stroked his hand gently.

“What have I done to deserve you?” murmured Patrick, gulping down his tea. He stood up. “I should fetch you the duvet and pillows”, he moved to leave the room. Shelagh reached out and grasped his hand again. 

Patrick stilled, looking at her questioningly. 

“I think, actually,” she paused, taking a big swig from her tea to give herself a moment to build her courage, “I think, that is to say, I thought, that maybe, I would sleep in your bed tonight.” 

“Oh. Of course. Yes. You've been sleeping on the sofa and then at the Institute. I’ll just pop upstairs, get some blankets for myself” he moved to leave again. Shelagh grasped his hand, tighter this time.

“No, Patrick. I was thinking, I would sleep in your bed, with you.”

Patrick’s heart leapt into his mouth, his response coming before he could process his thoughts properly, “Shelagh! We aren't married.”

“No. But we should be. And tonight is supposed to be our wedding night”

“People will talk!”

“Patrick, people are already talking. I have already spent two nights sleeping under this roof; by now anyone who is caring to gossip has enough fuel to keep them fired up for months.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“And even though they have more than enough gossip, I am, for the record, suggesting sleeping, only sleeping, nothing more. I wouldn't want either of us to feel compromised." she paused, knowing she needed to be there for him, and wanting him to be there for her, "I just don’t want to be alone tonight, and I am fairly sure that you do not either.”

Patrick visibly relaxed. He pulled Shelagh to him, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Well then, that would be entirely acceptable. I would like that very much, actually. If you are absolutely sure?”

“I am. I'm afraid I’ll also have to borrow your pyjama top again” she added quietly. 

Patrick’s breath became shallower, his mind having gone to a place that quite definitely compromised his gentlemanly intentions. Shelagh looked at him, noting the change in his demeanour. She wasn't sure whether it was the late hour, the stress of the last few days or the slightly dishevelled appearance of the man who should be her husband, but she felt a longing for him rising within her. 

Shelagh pressed herself to Patrick, placing her hands on his shoulders. She reached up and kissed him, as she had numerous times in this kitchen since they had become engaged. Shelagh wasn't sure what it was about this house which made her feel so safe, but here she felt that no one was judging her, that no one could be watching the pair of them. It was in this house that all of their kisses had occurred; usually late into the evening, when Timothy was safely tucked up asleep upstairs, before Shelagh had left for her lodging house. Some of the kisses had been brief and fleeting, especially when it had been close to her curfew, but lately the kisses had been longer and more intense, and it had sometimes felt as if neither of them had wanted to stop. The intensity of her passion for him had surprised her, and she suspected had surprised him too.

They separated, both reluctant to end the embrace, but both of them suddenly overcome with tiredness. Shelagh tried to suppress a yawn.

“Are you ready to go upstairs?” asked Patrick.

“I am”.


	3. God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick just can't hide from himself anymore...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this gets angsty, and a little bit emotionally intense, and I hope I've done it justice. Then there's something that's skirting the edge of slightly steamy. Erm, yeah, biology! 
> 
> This is quite a long chapter.

Patrick held Shelagh’s hand as he led her up the stairs, both of them quietly considering what tonight had supposed to have entailed. Shelagh had been mentally preparing for the last few weeks, trying to imagine what it would be like, what Patrick’s expectations would be. For tonight though, she just wanted to feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, and the weight of his arm, holding her tightly into him. She wanted to wrap herself around him, and hold him tightly to her. Each of them needed the reassurance of each other; maybe more then they even really knew themselves.

They reached the top of the stairs, and continued along the short hallway. Patrick opened the door to the bedroom that should have been theirs now. It briefly occurred to him that the room was probably a bit of a mess. He wasn't the tidiest of men and what with the wedding preparations and the polio vaccinations on top of all his regular work, housework had been a low priority. Shelagh had been keeping on top of the rest of the house, but he was aware that she’d never been in this room before. He flicked the light switch and attempted to quickly scan the room for chaos. It wasn't too bad, if he ignored the unmade bedclothes, the jumble of unread copies of The Lancet mingled in with medical textbooks on the bedside table and ties scattered over seemingly every free surface. 

Shelagh’s eyes quickly scanned the room. It reflected Patrick’s personality a great deal. She smiled, “erm, pyjama top?” she enquired. Patrick opened a drawer and rooted out a stripy top. Shelagh took it from him and moved to leave, “I’ll just pop to the bathroom” she explained. She moved back out of the room and into the bathroom down the hallway. 

Patrick hastily rearranged the bedclothes, figuring that attempting to tidy any of the rest of the space was a futile exercise at this point. He sat on the edge of the bed, he wasn't sure what to do; should he get changed now or wait for Shelagh to come back to the bedroom and then excuse himself? His mind was tired, his body in pain, both aspects of him exhausted from having grabbed sleep as and when he could, whilst sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair on the ward. He couldn't quite believe that Shelagh wanted to spend the night in his bed. He couldn't quite believe that he hadn't been utterly insistent on her not doing so, but something inside him wanted her with him tonight. He mentally berated himself with the thought that it should have been their bed by rights; that he should have been spending the night exploring the depths of his passion for her, and hers for him. Tears threatened to erupt from him again, and he wiped his nose with the handkerchief in his pocket and told himself to pull himself together. 

Patrick had been aware over the last few weeks of a growing intimacy and intensity between them. There appeared to be an unspoken agreement between them that when out in public an exceptionally respectful distance would be kept between them, and they barely even held hands when they walked down the street together. But in private it was becoming more and more difficult to tear themselves away from each other at the end of the evening. There had been one occasion last week, when everything had seemed so much more simple than it did now, when he had felt sure that he had seen something almost carnal in Shelagh’s eyes as they had sat on the sofa embracing. Things then had become a little, well, ‘heated’, and it had only been the ringing of the telephone, updating him as to a patient’s progress, which had stopped matters moving past the realm of what could in any way be considered ‘gentlemanly conduct’. And he was fairly sure that Shelagh wouldn't have stopped him from going further if the phone hadn’t have rung.

He snapped himself back to the present as Shelagh appeared in the doorway. He gasped; she was wearing the pyjama top, and, from what he could tell, not much else. He was fairly sure that when she’d been sleeping on the sofa she’d worn a slip under the top; he was really quite sure about that, he had paid very close attention in fact. He had liked the slip, but he was discovering that he liked the lack of a slip even more. The top dwarfed Shelagh’s tiny frame, and covered a great expanse of her leg, but he could still see quite a quantity of thigh. He struggled to find any appropriate words, and was not surprised when all his brain could discover was “Bloody hell” he paused, “Sorry, Shelagh, sorry. Just, you, look, wow”.

Shelagh smiled a tight lipped smile. Oh dear, Patrick appeared to be a hot mess, and she tried not to giggle as she watched him try to find appropriate words. She bent down and loosened his tie for him, removing the frankly offensive item and flinging it casually towards the dresser. She started to work on the buttons of his waistcoat; the ones which were still fastened at least. She slipped the item free of his arms and stepping back placed it carefully over the chair in the corner. Patrick realised he was still wearing his shoes, and quickly shucked them off, propelling them under the bed without bothering to undo the laces. His socks quickly followed before Shelagh returned. She stood before him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. She liked his shoulders, they were broad and muscular. She leaned down and gently kissed his forehead. She continued to kiss him, moving to kiss his cheeks, his chin, and finally, teasingly, she kissed him on the lips. 

Patrick was quite unused to being the shorter party in this arrangement. His hands instinctively moved to wrap themselves around Shelagh’s waist, gently tugging her towards him. His legs fell open, and he felt Shelagh move in closer to him. He was vaguely aware of his braces being slipped off his shoulders. Then he felt her nimble fingers start to work on the buttons of his shirt. 

Every part of Patrick’s brain which was not fighting his mental and physical exhaustion screamed at him that he should stop this; that he should gently pry his fiancée off him and retreat downstairs to sleep on the sofa like a gentleman. Unfortunately, so much of his brain was fighting now to stay awake that the sensible areas were quickly silenced. Shelagh made surprisingly light work of the shirt buttons and Patrick felt the item being wrestled from his body as Shelagh began to sweep her hands gently over his shoulders and his back. His vest was all that stood between her teasing fingers and his rough skin. He could do little other than sit on the edge of the bed whilst Shelagh continued to kiss him, almost reverently.

As Shelagh continued her gentle exploratory kisses of Patrick’s lips, chin, jaw and even ears, she was still holding Patrick’s shirt in her hand, her mind trying to figure out what on earth she did with it. She was fairly sure she had got away with flinging the tie haphazardly, but a shirt was a different matter. She was also aware that she was dancing around the edge of some potentially quite dangerous territory, given that she was an unmarried woman about to share a bed with the man who was not yet her husband. And an unmarried woman who had never previously so much as kissed a man before Patrick. Shelagh trusted Patrick implicitly, but she realised she was getting hopelessly out of her depth. She also felt that she couldn't quite help herself; that there was quite a lot she wanted to know and explore about Patrick and his body. But for tonight, she wanted to know he was by her side, and she by his.

Shelagh gently broke off the kiss, leaning back from Patrick. She held up the shirt, “erm, where do I put this?” she asked, quietly.

“Let me” said Patrick. He gently moved Shelagh backwards, taking a moment before he stood up. He placed the shirt on the chair with the waistcoat, and rummaged in the drawer of the dresser for another pair of pyjamas. He turned round and looked at Shelagh. “I’ll erm, just be back in a minute…” he made as if to leave the room, but some force stopped him. He smiled at Shelagh, “do you want to get in?” he asked, gesturing awkwardly at the bed.

Shelagh swallowed slowly, she was suddenly quite nervous. She knew Patrick was a perfect gentleman; knew tonight was just about comfort and two people helping each other through a traumatic event, but she suddenly realised that one day soon, possibly in the next few weeks, this moment would be about so much more. 

“Erm, do you have a side?” she waved her hand broadly towards the bed. 

“Oh, well, erm, I maybe tend to sleep towards this side” Patrick indicated the side of the bed nearer the door, the one with the small table piled up with Lancets and books. Shelagh nodded, and moved around towards the other side, nervously stroking the duvet as she met Patrick’s eyes across the somewhat imposing item of furniture. 

“OK. All right, I will just be a minute, you erm, you make yourself comfortable” he backed slowly towards the door, clutching his pyjamas to him like a lifebelt. He moved into the hallway, quietly pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. 

Shelagh stood at the edge of the bed. It was just a bed: just a big, double bed; big enough for two people; a husband and a wife. Shelagh slowly bent down and turned down the duvet. She pressed the mattress, testing it, and was pleased to discover that it was just the right mix of firm support with cushiony softness. She had forced herself to get used to the hard mattresses in the Convent, but she had never slept particularly well on them. She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for a lightning bolt to emerge from above and strike her down, and was relieved when none came. She knew that she could still change her mind, still retreat to the sofa downstairs, that Patrick wouldn't mind. But she knew she did not want to. She wanted to be here, with him.

She gently swung her legs up onto the bed, and slipped them under the covers. This felt OK, it felt fine, natural even. Shelagh was finding the bed to be very comfortable and she bounced slightly, testing the mattress once more, wincing slightly as one of the bed-springs creaked. She wasn't sure what to do now; did she lie down properly, or sit up and wait? She decided to choose sitting up and waiting. She smoothed the edge of the duvet, neatening the lie of the covering where Patrick had somewhat hastily attempted to straighten it earlier. She turned round and plumped the pillows, an action made more awkward than it should have been by the fact of her already being in the bed. Shelagh had determined that now she was in, she wasn't getting out again. She reached over and plumped Patrick’s pillows for him, smoothing down the pillowcases as she went. She resumed her sitting position and paid close attention to her breathing, trying to even it out and relax.

Outside the room Patrick paused. He had not been prepared for any of this. He had in his mind that tonight should have been their wedding night, with all the implications that went with it, but he hadn’t really been sure whether anything, well, “significant”, would have actually happened. Patrick was painfully aware of Shelagh’s shyness, and her total inexperience in such matters. But then she did sometimes surprise him with her forthrightness. He hadn’t even assumed that anything would actually happen on their wedding night. He had been content for that evening to pass with them curled around each other, although he had planned on spending quite a lot of time kissing his new wife senseless. 

He wondered idly where she had got the idea or the courage to slowly strip him of his clothes tonight. That had been an entirely too distracting series of moments, and he had been somewhat glad when she had stopped and stepped back. He’d also been somewhat saddened, temporarily caught up as he had been in the experience of the moment. He shook his head to wake himself up slightly, gripped the door handle and turned it. 

The door to the room opened and Patrick stepped through, closing it shut tightly in the frame behind him. He saw Shelagh sat up in bed and a lump formed in his throat. She looked beautiful; she was beautiful. He bent down and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. Standing back up he slowly reached out and turned the main light off. Shelagh looked at him, giving him a smile that he interpreted as her being slightly nervous. 

“All right?” he asked, still hovering on his side of the bed.

“Yes, thank you” said Shelagh, her hands flattening the duvet again. 

Patrick leaned down and scooched the duvet back, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, facing Shelagh. Shelagh turned away from him, taking her glasses off and placing them on the empty table next to what she was now tentatively calling her side of the bed. 

“You are sure about this?” asked Patrick, desperate for her to answer affirmatively, but prepared for her to have changed her mind. 

“Yes. I'm sure. Now get in bed properly, and come closer, I can barely see you now” Shelagh teased. 

Patrick adjusted himself so that he was properly in bed, and as instructed, moved over so that he was closer to Shelagh. He slid down the bed, and waited for Shelagh to follow his lead. She did so, but he could sense the fear coming off her in waves. 

“How bad is your eyesight?” he asked.

“It’s really quite poor. I can barely see three feet without my glasses” Shelagh answered. 

“Well, let’s level the playing field a little then. I was going to turn the lamp off, is that all right?” he enquired.

“Yes” Shelagh answered quickly.

Patrick rolled over, flicked off the light and gently rolled back towards the centre of the bed. “Now neither of us can see anything” he teased. 

“I suppose that means we’re reliant on our other senses” said Shelagh, with much more confidence than she was feeling. 

“Absolutely, yes” said Patrick, emboldened by the darkness, “May I hold you?” he asked.

“Yes” came the reply, from a distance that he deduced was exceptionally close to his ear. 

Patrick reached out his arm, finding the outline of Shelagh’s waist swathed within his stripy top. She was lying exceptionally close to him, and his arm curved up her back, holding her to him. 

“Patrick?” asked Shelagh, “If I wanted to kiss you now, would that be all right?”

“Yes, absolutely. It would be, more than all right”, he stopped speaking as he felt the warmth of Shelagh’s breath on his cheek. He felt her lips tentatively reaching for his, and moved his head slightly to meet her. She kissed him softly on the lips, deepening the kiss slowly. She tasted divine. After a few minutes, she moved on, tenderly kissing his cheeks, his nose, even his eyelids. She wrapped her arms around Patrick and pulled him closer to her, running her left hand through his hair, in the same soothing manner she had run it through Timothy’s hair in the hospital. 

Patrick felt himself beginning to lose control. He gripped Shelagh tighter, his right hand bunching up the material of her borrowed pyjama. The motion of her fingers was so soothing, and he was so over-whelmed by all the events of the last few days.

“I was so scared I was going to lose him, so scared.” Patrick gulped, as Shelagh continued to hold him tightly, her right hand, which was trapped beneath them both, making an attempt at soothing motions over his back. 

“It’s all right. It’s all right to be scared Patrick” she whispered quietly to him, “it’s all right”. 

She felt Patrick sob bodily, the tension within him unable to be held back anymore. He knew he shouldn't let her see him like this, knew he should keep it all locked up inside; but he felt safe in her arms, and he allowed the tears to flow. “Shelagh, I didn't know what to do. He was just lying there, and there was nothing I could do”, he cried into her shoulder, each of them anchoring themselves to the other now, “and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him too”. Shelagh kissed his forehead, to reassure him that she was still there. 

“Oh, Patrick” she sighed quietly, feeling the tears start to well up inside herself too.

“And I thought I was going to lose you, in the summer, to TB, and I couldn't stand it when you weren't here. And I thought it was going to be like that again, that they’d take him away and I wouldn't be able to see him, and I wouldn't know if he was ever coming back”. 

“I'm sorry Patrick, I'm sorry” said Shelagh, “I'm sorry I had to leave you, even for a little while”.

“And I loved you, and I couldn't tell you, and I so wanted to. And I saw the way you looked at me sometimes, and I felt sure that you wanted to say something to me.”

“I did Patrick, I did, but I was scared too”, Shelagh was starting to cry a little herself now, “I was scared of everything, of loving you, too much, and not enough. I was scared of what people would say, but it doesn't matter. I love you Patrick”. the tears started to flow down her cheeks, mingling with Patrick's as they flowed down their faces.

“I love you Shelagh.” Patrick continued to cry, months of angst and suppressed feelings finally being released like a cork from a champagne bottle. 

The tears flowed freely from both of them as Patrick continued to hold Shelagh tightly to him. Shelagh calmed down first, but continued to hold Patrick tightly to her, allowing him the space and time to expel the stress and worry which had built up within him. Patrick sobbed himself to the edge of exhaustion, to the point where it felt like he had been wrung dry. He stilled then, and sniffed loudly, needing to wipe his nose again, but not wanting to leave Shelagh’s arms. 

“Here”, she held up a corner of the borrowed pyjama top to him, offering the same as a make-shift handkerchief.

“Are you sure?” he sniffled.

“I've had a lot worse in my time. I’ll be fine”. He took the offered corner and blew hard, wiping away the final tears as he did so. He attempted to fold the clothe in on itself, but it didn't want to stay folded, and he found himself accidentally stroking Shelagh’s thigh in an attempt to avoid the damp material from making contact with her skin. 

Patrick continued absent-mindedly stroking Shelagh’s leg, utterly forgetting in his haze of being both physically tired and emotionally drained that he had never even seen her leg before tonight. Shelagh felt loved, wrapped as she was in his arms, still stroking her fingers through his hair. She felt him stroking her leg, making swirling motions with his fingers and thought it felt like the most natural movement she had ever experienced. She lifted his head from her chest and kissed him once more.

It was like a fire had been kindled in Patrick’s soul, and he suddenly found himself responding to her kiss with more zeal and considerably less restraint than he ever had previously. Shelagh found the enthusiasm of Patrick’s response awakened her own desire, and she wrapped herself more tightly around him, wrapping her leg around his. It felt like the most natural progression in the world for Patrick to roll them so that Shelagh was beneath him, one of his hands wrapped around her back still, the other supporting him now so as to hover above her. He shifted his weight so that he could pull her up from the bed towards him. 

The kisses were becoming sloppier now, and Patrick found himself turning his attentions away from Shelagh’s gloriously tender lips to instead lightly nibble her neck. For her part Shelagh was over-whelmed, it felt like her skin was covered in static, and each time he kissed or caressed her it was like another wave of shock rolling through her body. And suddenly, as he pulled her to him tighter, she felt it; the evidence of his desire for her.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “oh”. She was suddenly quite breathless, and suddenly very aware that she was quite effectively pinned under Patrick who was continuing to explore the finer points of her neckline, jaw and even, good grief, had he just suckled her ear-lobe? Oh, that felt good, more than good actually. She felt it again; the indication of how much he wanted her. She was terribly flattered; he had been such a gentleman during their courtship that it had sometimes concerned her that he was not as passionate as she had hoped or wished for. She could tell now that she had no need for such concerns. She grinned, her mind racing to some places that surprised her, before the sensible part of her brain demanded dominance over her thoughts.

“Patrick” she urged too quietly, “Patrick, darling, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but could we, perhaps, just, oh” he was kissing her neck again, and Shelagh was finding she quite enjoyed it. She held his head in place, struggling within herself to know how to proceed. Part of her now wanted to give herself to him completely, the technicalities of wedding vows be damned. She wanted to feel him, to know him, to be one with him. Patrick shifted position again, resting Shelagh down on the bed, freeing both his hands and positioning them either side of her. He carried on kissing her, moving from her neck to her jaw to her lips, especially her lips, and she found herself being devoured by his insistent tongue and mouth. One of his hands had moved back to her thigh, and was making those lovely swirling motions again. His hand started to move upwards, at which point Shelagh sat up swiftly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him back, placing her other hand on top of his as it threatened to work it’s way deep up the inside of the pyjama top.

“Patrick, stop. Please." They both looked at each other, both somewhat breathless, "I'm sorry my love. We need to stop. I'm feeling quite,” she paused, needing to choose her word carefully, “over-whelmed. And, as absolutely lovely as this is, I think we are both not quite as in control of ourselves as we should be right now”. 

“Oh” replied Patrick, the rational part of his brain waking up. He was taken aback; he had allowed himself to completely surrender to the feelings of desire within him. “I'm sorry” he blurted out, pushing himself backwards and away from Shelagh, “I'm sorry, I should never have….”

“Patrick, its fine. Really. That was rather, well, exciting, actually. I am enjoying myself greatly, but I am afraid that clearer heads must prevail. As you have said, we are not yet married”. Shelagh reached out for him, wanting to reassure him. Her hand brushed his, squeezing it lightly.

“But if we were?” Patrick sought reassurance that the curtailment was only temporary.

“If we were married, then I would not want to stop. I will not want to stop. And if you tried to stop I would, I suspect, be most disappointed.” She had glimpsed the truth of it now, she was no longer scared of what lay in their future together.

Patrick’s eyes sparkled mischievously at the revelation.

“Patrick Turner: I want to be your wife; in name and spirit, and in body.” 

There was a pause, as an understanding passed between them. Tonight they were not destined to be together as man and wife, but they both knew they would be soon, “But for tonight my love, we must be content to hold each other”. Shelagh reached out and pulled Patrick to her, enveloping him in her arms. 

They stayed that way, embracing each other for several minutes more, both feeling refreshed by the other’s warmth and love. Then Patrick moved, lying back down on his side of the bed, drawing Shelagh gently into his side. He pulled the duvet up to cover them, kissed her shoulder, and wrapped one arm around her. “Good night my love” he whispered, his eyelids heavy now with sleep. 

Shelagh relaxed against him, as the sounds of the clock on the mantle in the lounge downstairs echoed around the house, chiming for midnight.

“Good night my love. And Merry Christmas” she replied, squeezing his hand, as she too surrendered to the insistent call of sleep.


End file.
